Just George
by lindsaylaurie
Summary: George returns to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes after his brother's death.


A/N: Found this one on my hard drive from August 2007. Fixed it up a bit. Still can't figure out indenting... lol. XD; Apologies if this has been done to death.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

George had not been to the flat above Weasley's Wizard Wheezes for two whole weeks. Partly because he'd been staying at Hogwarts for all the funerals and partly because he was avoiding it. With the very last body identified and sent home, there had been no more excuses, he had to go back. Now, the once carefree Weasley was regretting even setting foot in the shop.

It was just how they'd left it. The only change was a thin layer of dust coating the once colorful merchandise. George numbly walked past it all, not having the strength to pull out his wand and clean the place. He avoided looking at it all really, afraid of being painfully reminded of… his brother. That's what he referred to him mentally now; even thinking his name was painful. After what seemed like an eternity, the solemn red head found himself in the doorway of his flat.

This too, was just as they'd left it and a bit dusty. Unfinished products for the store lay haphazardly on the floor, staring up at him mockingly. They might never be finished now, how could he ever try to now that his brother was… not there? Another thing he couldn't admit, not even when they'd lowered him into the cold ground and shoved dirt over him. George had even laughed feebly as they'd done so, as if it was some final, cruel joke. He'd quieted the instant all eyes fell on him, full of sympathy. He didn't need their sympathy, his brother would rise any second, a stupid grin on his face. And then, everyone would laugh… But he didn't, and no one did.

George growled, shaking away the bad memory. He knew coming here would just make him more upset than he already was. But he had to press on, go just a bit deeper into the flat, then everything would be better. He had to live here and it wouldn't do not to be able to ever go into his own house ever again. Clenching his fists and putting on a brave face, he ventured into the bedroom.

"There now, that's not so bad," he said to himself a bit shakily, his eyes focused on his own bed. After a moment, he worked up the courage to glance around the rest of the room.

He really wished he hadn't.

The first thing he saw was his brother, staring back at him with the same grim expression he was wearing. For a second his heart sped up and hope filled him. He wasn't dead! George knew it all along! His sudden surge of happiness left like air from a balloon. It was only a mirror. Suddenly George was very much alone again, staring at his reflection in that foul full length mirror and hating himself and his stupid genetics. Why in Merlin's name had he been cursed with the same face as his lost brother? It made him sick just looking at himself.

It was karma, he had decided weakly, now on his knees in front of the dusty mirror. Karma for all the bad (yet hilarious) things he had done in his life. Now he was here, reaping his reward. A constant reminder of the brother he had lost, staring back at him every time he looked in the mirror. It wasn't fair, not at all. He tried to console himself with the fact that he and his brother were not identical. No, he was missing an ear. George pushed the hair away from the vacant space on the side of his head, just to assure himself that the ear was still gone.

He wondered what it would be like, being just George. It had always been Fred and George for as long as he could remember. They were rarely addressed separately as there was really no need to be. They did everything together, like they were one person. Fred and George.

It wasn't until he had been watching himself for a few minutes that George realized he was crying. He clenched his fists harder, feeling his nails dig into the sensitive flesh of his palms. A bit of blood was drawn, but he didn't care. After a moment he thought to wipe away his tears, leaving a smear of blood on his face. It hadn't occurred to him that the blood on his hands would dribble onto his face. It was then, when he looked up again, that he cracked. Seeing blood on the face that looked so much like his brother's made him do something drastic. He smashed the mirror.

The red-head didn't even bother using magic, instead reverting to using his fist to crack the reflection. Shards of glass rained down on him, his palm bled, he screamed. It was all a blur really as he got up and blindly stumbled into the bathroom. The mirror in here was broken before he even got a chance to glimpse his reflection. Now his hands were bleeding steadily, staining the carpet. George didn't care, not at all. He just continued his hysterical demolition of every last mirror in the stupid flat. Why did they have one in the first place? They looked exactly alike!

And when he was done, he collapsed weakly into his bed. He pulled out his wand to heal the deep cuts in his hands, cursing the world. After a few moments of simply lying there, he peered over the edge of his bed, only to be met with a large section of glass that reflected back at him. He looked terrible, to put it mildly. His hair was disheveled, face chalk white and smeared with blood. He couldn't live this way, he had to move on and continue the shop. Fred would have wanted that.

So he did, and no one ever questioned why there were no mirrors in his flat.


End file.
